


Coda 26

by Miazaz



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Clever Man streams consciousness at 120 mph, Episode 26 tag, Found Family, Gen, Special Cameo by Silas, bear hugs for the gun son, everybody is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:12:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9281705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miazaz/pseuds/Miazaz
Summary: "Thanks for putting the bear on suicide watch, by the way. That was brilliant."A "Cows and Consequences" tag, for Percy, who was more "consequences" than a cow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I found this buried in my Google Drive, written exactly after having watched eps 26 and 27, so it might be a little off.

The heat is home.

The black powder, the metal, his hands - progress. 

Progress, power, comfort,  _ action _ . 

A thing of metal, numbers, work, all he knows and all he can be, a thing more permanent and more than he is.

 

_ (a thing running on hope and a thin line a thing that wears itself faulty until it breaks the thing he is and all he was) _

 

His skin is hot under the unforgiving harshness of the smelt, tanned and dry. He can feel what will linger on his face, raw, pink and burnt. A mark, a mark for proof, proof he’s moving forward. Forward, forward toward something for the first time in a long time. He can feel it in his skin, in his blood, in his bones. Burning and exhaustion, exhaustion fatigue ---

Pain.

His arms give out on him, muscles protested and burning hotter than the smithy, than the liquid ore he drops as his body fails him piece by piece. A weak, but well placed kick, sends the cast rolling back to the stonework by his fire, away from the black powder, away from the ammunition.

 

_ (away from him it’s almost disappointing) _

 

A stumble, back, one step, two, and he falls, heavy and drained onto his workbench, dragging his mask off with the flow of gravity as his face slips down, down away from his hands. It hangs in his hair, still, then falls with a light clatter.

 

_ (everything slips down down down) _

 

Time is motion, he is not, but time does not move here. How long has it been since they returned, since dinner? Since running, since home --

The door shakes. He lifts his head and glares, voice too dry and mouth too heavy to open, at the sound of beating, ballast against the metal. He swears he hears the door groan under the assault, low and long, until seems to come from the floor, settling into low huffing.

It takes more effort than he wants to admit - to himself, to anyone - to haul himself to his feet, lean against the stone frame and unlock the door, open it.

“You know better,” he says, but it’s hardly more than a whisper. Trinket stares him down. “Stop that.”

If there’s anything for a bear to fear, he knows it’s not him, three days without sleep and two without food and one day from any meaningful progress, but he glares with what little he can muster, what little presence he can dredge from the void his body feels loosely wrapped around. 

 

_ (a cloak of flesh and blood and regret over the eroded shape of memory) _

 

Trinket stands to his full height, looks down on him, and waves an accusing paw in his direction with a low murmured groan. Somehow, Percy thinks he sees the face of his handler in the disdain; as much as he thinks a bear can be disdainful, in any case. 

“I have work to do,” he says, because the bear looks so expectant, and this is the most productive thing he’s accomplished all day, and this is his life now, in the dark of a basement surrounded by corpses

 

_ (of projects) _

 

The bear is somewhat new.

“You should go.”

He was once a lord, he thinks, with servants and subjects, with respect and nobility, and this bear cares none for any of it, or what he has to say, or his personal space, as Trinket leans forward to grab him in both giant paws, pull him tight to his body.

Somehow, he knows the bear is lecturing him.

 

_ (oh my dear, the pup simply knows no better) _

 

Even the most stubborn parts of his brain know a losing fight when they see one, and the small spark of self-preservation buried deep and dark and down knows better than to fight a bear -- to fight this bear. He lets himself be pulled up off his feet, to be hugged tightly against the broad, warm body.

Trinket smells like Vex’s soap. The one monetary indulgence she allows herself, the fine scent of flowers and herbs he suddenly wishes he could name, light like summer. 

 

_ (she…) _

 

_ ( _ **_enough_ ** _ ) _

 

Like the forest, deep and dark and green, full of life and so many secrets. He can smell a campfire if he closes his eyes, smoke-burn settled in the fur of this beast as he lay across the lap of Vax, nearly swallowed in the black. 

The fire, warm and whirling, lit into life by Tiberius and so little effort it didn’t phase him to offer. He can almost hear the whisper of pages as the dragonborn studies, marking notes and plans more grand and concrete than his could be, and for so much more good.

They’re good, his little family, so much more than he, but none so much as little Pike, with her heart the size of a dragon and her smile as bright as the sun. His skin almost remembers the cool soothe of her magic stitching his wounds and mending bone, a peace and power the undeserving best forget.

Maybe that’s why it feels ages ago, why he clings so tightly, white knuckled and bleeding, to the remnants of Druidcraft breathing in his tools, giving them life, love and patience. So much of Keyleth in them, strong and set, her magic and her smile, exuberant and joyful in the light of the smithy, giddy like a child at the thunder trapped in Diplomacy. 

Joy settles bitter on his tongue, an ill-fitting bit carving into muscle that he may hope one day as silver, light and sharp as the bard’s, Scanlan diving right into the deepest reaches of absurdity. Some days, he feels in on the joke - in this world of selfish cruel, the clever little gnome stretches it to its limit in the simple pursuit of entertainment, transformative, fresh and new. Things are so much greater in hindsight.

His feet are under him now, solid heft and sure step, even as he shifts his weight. No fear of falling, never has never was -- the booming laugh and rage at his back, at his side, strong arm heaving him around as though he weighed the same as the very shirt on his form to set him gently on the ground nearby. Those same arms, back, shoulders that rip an ogre’s head from its body, lift it to the sky with a roar, Grog the man with the world on his back, the only one to trust with the form of the universe draped over his shoulders.

 

( _ the bear) _

 

Trinket settles on his four paws, pressing his face into his belly with a soft push. He croons, lifting his head up to Percy’s chest, snuffling at his face and ears. 

The bear can’t speak Common and he can’t speak Bear and maybe that’s for the best; the secrets lost in his fur in the black in the smoke in the love the joy the laugh and in the lines of his ferocity, where Percy buries his face and his shame, his name and all that’s left in the shell.

The heartbeat under his chest feels like home.  
  



End file.
